One morning the tabulation[12] ceased, pretty much by accident. I had a babysitter coming, and I was going to get in my third day at the gym (as I said, I thought I needed five to stay in shape) and then write (because if I didn’t write at least four mornings a week, it might take longer to finish my book).
But that day the cherry blossoms were out. My family lives near Central Park, in Manhattan, and even on the side streets petals[13] were snowing in the fragrant breeze. Chocolate croissants beckoned from a bakery window.[14] My daughter was irresistible. So I canceled the sitter and I took her out. We sat under the trees. We snoozed a little, and when we roused ourselves, I realized I’d forgotten about the time.[15]
Not counting wasn’t easy. It took work, much work. The only way I can describe the art of not counting is that whenever the numbers pop up in my mind, I try to sweep them away, and when they turn out to be particularly reluctant to go away, I picture the anxiety they cause pouring out of my fingertips.[16] I now go to the gym when I can—some weeks more often than others—but I don’t count the classes I take or don’t take. I stopped counting the months and years between books, and when people ask me how long my last one took to write, I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I weigh. I don’t remember who paid the bill the last time we went out with friends or how much it was. I don’t keep track of the Oscar-nominated films I need to see or the Pulitzer Prize–winning books I should read.[17] And I don’t tally the nights of takeout versus homemade anymore—although I admit it does make me cringe when I call my kids into dinner and my son says, “But I didn’t hear the doorbell.”[18]
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